Sick Little Games

Katherine Murphy looked at her best friend in disbelief, wondering if she could be kidding. Asking her to go to a party was not a good idea, and Katherine knew she was quite aware of the fact.

Christine laughed, searching Katherine’s features for any sense of dishonesty, but she came up short. “You’re not still afraid of parties, are you?” She asked, jingling her keys on her finger as they made their way out of the Murphy household.

Katherine picked at her nail polish. “No! I mean, kind of, sort of, yeah?”

“Girl, your teenage years are almost over. Save that for your time to not have fun anymore!” Christine wined exactly the way Lucy would.

A giggle escaped Katherine’s mouth, but her opinion wasn’t budging.

“It’ll be fun, I promise. I’ll monitor you. Two drinks; nothing less, nothing more. No getting shit-faced, you hear?” Her best friend grinned, “However, if your little heart desires to use the upstairs bedroom, don’t think I’ll be stopping you.”

“How ‘bout no drinks? I haven’t had alcohol in three years, I think I’ll be all right monitoring myself. And I wouldn’t worry about that last bit either, it’s not gonna happen.” Katherine stated dryly and Christine knew that was a touchy subject for her.

“So you’re in?” Christine squealed, trying to change the mood of the area as she turned her car in the direction of the nearest party.

A sigh escaped Katherine’s lips. “I’m in if you are.”

And just like Lucy, Katherine couldn’t say no.

-----

Lucy Murphy sat on the chair parallel from the one her grandmother was sitting on. The television was on, though quite frankly, the toddler was getting bored of Dora the Explorer.

“What’re you doing?” She suddenly came up behind her grandmother, who was delicately looking through a picture album.

“Reminiscing, honey. It’s funny the way life works, you know that?”

“What reminisce?” Lucy giggled at the big word and her inability to say it.

“Remembering,” her grandmom stated, still flipping through the album. Her fingernails gazed over one photo in particular, the only one of him they had. It was dark and there were cups scattered across the floor and tables, full of people who wouldn’t remember the day in the morning. And there he was, easily recognizable in the middle of it all.

“Swoopy-haired boy!” Lucy laughed with an inquisitive look on her face. “I saw him today,” she pointed to the laughing kid in the middle of the photo. “He said I had a pretty name and he kept smiling at me! I like him.”

Her grandmother softly smiled at her, unaware of what to say.

“Who is he? Do I know him? It feels like I know him.”

“No, you never met him,” The elderly women sighed, looking into Lucy’s dark brown eyes. She and him both had the same ones; the kind of eyes where you could barely tell where the pupil ends and the color begins. Those eyes sparkled in curiosity, and her grandmother felt obligated to put them to rest. “But Lucy, he’s your father.”